She was not a person who wrote about sex. She believed that humans should simply do it. She did not need pictures or lace or leather or “dirty” words. She was a gray-haired older woman with her hair in a bun and she was speaking of long ago, but vivid memories. “You know from his touch. You know from his scent. This is my male. I want to mate with this one.” Susan lowered her coffee cup and asked rhetorically: “Does the Wolf in the forest know the age of his female? Does he check her over from head to toe and reject her for an asymmetrical paw or ragged patch of her fur? No. The Wolf has never seen a commercial or read a book. His mind is completely free of all the noises that infect that of the modern human male. They sniff. They mate. Then, trot off to live together forever.”
Velda and Brigltte exchanged the tiniest of quick glances, praying no one in the crowed atrium restaurant could hear. They were holding their breaths, praying that Susan’s lecture would not demand any audience participation. Velda, the redhead, and the taller of the two, raised her hands and mimed writing on a pad, the universal gesture for “bring the check.” Brigette, the tiny blonde her purse up from the floor and began looking for something, anything, to change the subject.